For the last time, turkeys don't fly

Thanksgiving is a time for families to get together, count their blessings, and enjoy a bountiful dinner. Sure, and turkeys fly.

Uncle Flem comes in at 7 a.m. his arms loaded with bags of day old bagels. He wants to kick off the holiday season as early as possible. Mom comes down is a quasi-catatonic state, freaks out, and tries to recover by offering him a cup of coffee, not yet brewed. His booming voice replies, “Sure, that’s what the holidays are all about, right?” Uncle Flem is a bag lady. ALL of his possessions are loaded in the back seat of his Vega, which needs muffler work. The family considers the loud rumblings from his car a ‘Distant Early Warning’ alarm.

Dad stumbles into the kitchen, and grimaces as he sees his brother. With great disdain, he says, “Here a little early, aren’t you?” Flem chuckles at what he considers sibling ribbing, and spits out, “Oh, you know, the holidays and all.” Dad thinks, “Can’t wait for another free meal, can you?” He shakes his head, starts towards the living room, and his bare feet find every object left on the floor.

The rest of the reluctant visitors slide in during the course of the morning. They look like a police line up, and the family cat goes into deep hiding.

Fifty-three women cram into a twelve-foot by nine-foot kitchen. This makes moving any limbs impossible. All of the commotion and clatter come from this little sweatshop. The women are chatting away, and laughing out loud about secret jokes. Probably about something that sounds like Niagara.

The living room resembles a church. The men are all sprawled on the couch, ground, and aquarium, watching the holy sacrifice being performed on the magic altar. Huh? They’re watching football on television. College bowls and Pro games emanate a hypnotic effect upon the audience. Rumor has it there is legislation being introduced to the effect that anyone who watches three consecutive football games can be declared legally dead. This is an effort to keep men from overdosing on football, and having his wife accidentally bury him in his beer and onion dip. This curious tragedy has been growing at staggering rates.

The pungent odor consumes the entire house, and the men respond to it like a bear coming out of hibernation. “Dinner’s ready!” the women chide in unison.

The dinner table looks beautiful, like Pearl Harbor did on Dec. 7, 1941. It seems no matter how many people are invited, there is never enough room. People jockey for position, elbow each other like they were chasing money, and make sure the saltshaker is within reach. Ever notice that people always manage to sit at the point furthest from the food they want? Thus, it requires five pairs of hands to transport the food to the person.

Aunt Sticky is the family practical joker. Every year, she places her glass eye in the olive dish, and sneaks a whoopee cushion under the turkey. Oh boy, the gut-busting humor.

Dinner is totally quiet, except for the lip smacking, chair dragging, and the ritual dish crashing on the ground. The men attack every piece of edible material, shove it down their throats, burp, and run back to watch more football. Thus, eight hours’ worth of cooking is totally washed out in five minutes, which is directly proportionate to the amount of time for commercials to yell from the television.

Tradition dictates that as soon as the men are done eating, they all enter the living room, lie down, and resume watching football. Tryptophan town has taken over. Nothing brings a family closer than inviting a heart attack.

However, on this fateful day, the momentum comes to a complete crashing halt when the question arose, “How high are the turkeys flying when they get shot?” Grandpa chuckles at the question, and replies, “Son, turkeys don’t fly” Logic shoots back at him, “They have wings don’t they?” Grandpa again replies, Of course they do, but they don’t fly!” His voice was getting agitated. This didn’t phase the juvenile attacker, arguing, “Birds, airplanes, even mosquitoes have wings, and they fly. Why would turkeys have wings if they don’t fly? Isn’t that like putting water skis on an 18-wheeler?”

Total silence grasped the room. Grandpa’s face was turning as red as the cranberries he was about to throw, and he said very deliberately, “For the last time, turkeys don’t fly!” With that, he slammed his hand down on a fork, which happened to have a piece of turkey on it. The turkey catapults three seats down, and, yup, you guessed it, the turkey flew.